Jon Returns
by The Fantasy Chronicler
Summary: Unable to reach Daenerys in time, Jon dies beyond the Wall. In a final, Herculean effort, the Old Gods expend the last of their strength to send him back and time and try and change the outcome. Knowing the future, Jon will attempt to change the course of history and prepare Westeros for the Long Night. Jon alone knows how true his house words are: Winter is Coming.
1. Chapter 1

**Jon**

The brutally cold wind whipped in their faces as they stood, surrounded on an island, facing the hoard of the dead. For three days they had stood here, trapped, while the dead simply watched them and waited. But Jon knew it couldn't last. He had sent Gendry back to Eastwatch, to try and get a raven to Daenerys, but it was really a contrived excuse to get the boy to safety. As the dead advanced, alerted and prompted on by Clegane's skidding rock, Jon knew now there was no hope. Still, he drew Longclaw one final time, prepared to fight until his final breath.

The initial impact of life and death was marked by the final battle cries of the living and the eerie silence of the dead, punctuated by the sound of steel crunching into flesh and bone. At first, the living were able to carve out pockets of space around themselves, but the dead kept coming. The sheer weight of tens, if not hundreds, of thousands of wights quickly collapsed any room, and it soon became difficult to even swing a sword. To his left, Jon saw one of the wildlings who had traveled beyond the Wall with him literally rippled apart by dozens of cold, unfeeling hands while the most horrible screams Jon had ever heard filled the air. The world was collapsing around him, making it hard to breathe. Longclaw was pinned against his chest, of no use. He let go of the sword with his right hand, and drew his dirk, stabbing blindly into the mass of blue eyed corpses as he felt their hands tear at his face. The twin smells of rot and death filled his nostrils, and Jon screamed as one of the wiights bit down on his ear. He felt a dagger enter his back, something he had hoped never to feel again.

Suddenly, there was space around him as Thoros of Myr's fiery blade carved a path through the dead, freeing Jon to retreat farther inland on the tiny island, up its even tinier hill. The reprieve didn't last long. Thoros, swinging his sword in broad arcs to try and keep the dead at bay was quickly surrounded. He stabbed one final time into the mass of corpses and then spun trying to clear some room around him; then, Thoros of Myr fell on his own sword.

Jon, from the crest of the hill surveyed the carnage. Of Jorah Mormont there was no sign. Tormund was still fighting, but he was swinging his sword at random with hand, while the other tried to hold his vital organs inside his chest. The Hound was trying to run up the hill, toward Jon, but the man was buried in wights. It was amazing he could run at all with sheer amount of weight on his back. Jon saw dozens of wights trying to bring him down, but Clegane kept throwing off his back. Of the wight they had stuck in a bag, there was no sign. Sighing, Jon screamed a final time and plunged back into the fray, trying to help Clegane.

Jon's momentum allowed him to cut down several of the dead, giving Clegane time to shake off the last few wights and turn around. The two pressed back-to-back, protecting each other, preventing each other from being flanked. Together, the two easily felled three dozen of the dead before Jon felt the Hound's back go lax against his. And then he stood alone.

Jon felt another dagger bury itself in his shoulder. He spun, twirling Longclaw over his head, decapitating two opponents, before half a dozen weapons pierced his back and sides. He collapsed, leaking blood, as countless stab wounds penetrated his body. Then suddenly, they stopped.

He lay there, on the verge of life and death, while the sea of the dead parted. From the corner of his eye, Jon could see a half-dozen blue-white feet walking toward him. He clenched Longclaw, preparing for one final swing, one final blow, one final attempt to kill the Night King.

The feet stopped, easily within reach, and then delivered a kick to the ribs that jarred Jon's teeth, flipping him onto his back. As he turned, Jon lashed out with everything he had left. The result of the summation of Jon's final effort was a pathetic attempt at a strike that the Night King easily knocked aside. The last thing Jon saw was a blade of ice entering his face.

_Nooooooooo! Countless voices, ancient voices, screamed out. It's over. We have lost. The Other One has won. "There is another" said one voice, which spoke with the force of seven. "She can still defeat him. She was the one who was Foretold, not he."_

"_She cannot win now" said a new voice, a young voice, one only recently joining their council. "She doesn't know what's coming. She doesn't know she is needed, doesn't know who she is, doesn't know what's at stake. She looks South." Thunderous agreement broke out among the voices. Their collective murmurs of assent sounded, to the young voice, like a mighty wind rushing through the trees. _

_ "There is still something that could be done" a new voice said, the voice of one who had long been the ambassador between the council and the world of men. The Other One is gaining strength, whilst our own strength wanes. But we still are powerful enough to intervene one last time."_

_ Another murmur went through those assembled. "To do as you suggest would take the last of our strength. We would be empty shells thereafter. And who then would safeguard the world of men?"_

_ "If we don't do this, there won't be a world of men to safeguard."_

_ "You want this? You want to be an impotent old man trapped in a tree, your life's work for naught." _

_ "His life's work has already come to naught" said the new voice, the young voice. One champion is dead, and the other will waste lives, time, and resources for an iron chair while the dead sweep over the Wall, sweep over the North. By the time she knows what is coming for her, it will be too late. I can see it; can you not?"_

_ "Do not presume to share your visions with us, _boy_" the assembly hissed vehemently. "We gave you your would be nothing, a cripple in a sick room, without us."_

_ "Then you know it's true."_

_ Angry chatter raced through the crowd, a tempest through a Godswood. _

_ "Let us do it" thundered countless voices in unison. Tension surged through those assembled, and then a surge of power. Suddenly, a fire burst into the center of the assembly. A voice called out something unintelligible. Then, a flash of light. The voices fell silent. Then there was one, the one who had long been an ambassador, and now was again._

_ "What happened?" he asked, confused. "I can still sense you." What before had been a mighty chorus of thousands of powerful voices floated across the void with only the strength of a whisper: "There was a surge of power at the end. It wasn't us. Could it have been Him?"_

**Jon**

Jon darted awake, gasping, panting, sweat roiling down body. Immediately he knew what had happened. Melisandre has brought him back again. But this time was different. Before he had come back naked, this time he awoke wearing his bedclothes. And he felt weird, as if his proportions had changed. He rolled out of bed and was startled to find himself in Winterfell. But more startling, he was in his old room, the room he had stayed in as a boy, instead of the apartments he had stayed in when he had been proclaimed King in the North.

He grabbed the pitcher and washbasin from his nightstand, which seemed both taller and farther away than it should have, filled the pitcher, and dumped it over his head. The chill shocked his senses into alertness. And then he saw his reflection.

Jon jumped back, startled. All of his facial hair was gone, and his hair was longer than it had been since, well, since he had died the first time. But what was more disturbing was his faced looked, well, youthful. Startled, Jon positioned the basin so he could see examine his chest in the reflection. _No scars!_ And, while still fit, he was missing quite a bit of muscle. He tried to move and tripped over his suddenly uncoordinated legs. Nervously, he pulled at the front waistband of his breeches and looked down at his manhood. It was smaller than it should have been. A mixture of fear, dread, and strangely hope raced through him as he raced out of his room and to the great hall. Several startled serving maids jumped out of his way, and giggled nervously about something as he raced by.

The guards at the door tried to stop him for some reason, but Jon burst right past them and into the Great Hall, where he immediately slid to a halt. All eyes were on him, but he could not have cared less in that moment. Arya sat at the table, wearing a dress instead of the trousers he was used to seeing on her; Needle was nowhere in sight. Sansa was considerablely less, well, developed, than when he saw her last (Jon was slightly relieved he was not the only one), and she was not wearing the ostentatious direwolf broach she had taken to wearing upon her return to Winterfell. The glare she fastened him with would have made the Sansa he had last met blush and stammer out an apology. But Jon only had eyes for the men at the table; Rickon was playing with his food, while Bran, Robb, and Father stared at him, aghast for some reason. A twinge of anger flashed through Jon, as he remembered Rickon bleeding to death in his arms. Bran was not in a wheelchair. And Robb and Father were _alive_!

"Robb" Jon said weakly, tears coming to his eyes. "Father." Suddenly, Jon's legs were very wobbly Lord Stark rose to say something, but Lady Stark was faster. "Jon Snow" she said, barely restrained fury in her voice. Jon could clearly hear the emphasis on his surname. "What is the meaning of this?" Jon was confused by her fury; she had never liked him, but this was excessive, even for her. He didn't care; Robb and Father were alive.

"Jon" Father's said, voice grave, "go back to your room this instant."

"But-" Jon started to say, and then the pieces clicked together in his brain. The way the serving girls had giggled nervously as he ran by, the way the guards had tried to stop him from entering, the way Sansa and Arya were looking at him right now: Arya with open curiosity and Sansa with something hidden in her glare; it suddenly occurred to Jon that, in his excitement, he had run all the way here in his smallclothes. "I beg your pardon, my Lord, my Lady" he said. But he was too excited to be embarrassed.

But as he walked back to his rooms, a sudden sense of duty overtook him. Jon knew where he was, but he didn't know _when_ he was. But of one thing, he was certain: The Night King was still coming; death still marched on the Wall.


	2. Chapter 2

**Jon**

Jon took his stance, weight on his back foot, the hilt of his practice sword only just above his waist, the blade slanting upward at an angle halfway between parallel and perpendicular to the ground. In front of him, Robb mirrored his stance, while to Jon's right stood Theon Greyjoy, and to his left, Jory Cassel. Rodrik Cassel stood partway between Robb and Theon, and a short distance out of the circle of combatants. The old master-at-arms had said he would join in if things got too one sided. The way he had glanced at Jon thoughtfully while he said it, made Jon wonder who the old knight was worried this would get out of hand for.

"Begin on the count of three" Rodrik said. Jon settled into his stance. "One!" Rodrik said. Jon locked eyes with Robb. "Two!" Rodrik shouted. Jon shifted his weight forward and raised the hilt of his sword, so the blade now was parallel to the ground, pointed straight at Robb's heart. "Three!"

Jon lashed out quickly, not at Robb, but to his left, at Jory Cassel, who parried the blow easily. But Jon performed a tight pirouette, back and to the right, out from underneath the bull-rushing idiot Greyjoy. As he and Jory collided, Jon closed quickly on Robb, who had been frozen into indecision by the pre-duel stare-down. Robb managed to parry all three of Jon's attacks, but Jon had closed the gap between them, pinning their swords together. Extending, Jon managed to get one foot between Robb's legs, and then shoved with all his might, causing his half-brother to fall in a heap of tangled limbs.

Turning, Jon barely managed to get his blade up in time to counter Theon's mighty two-handed blow. Even having been parried, the heavy attack from the older, bigger boy staggered Jon, who almost tripped on Robb, sprawled underneath him. Luckily regaining his balance, Jon danced away, forcing Theon, and, more importantly, the pursuing Jory and rising Robb to chase after him. Pirouette, riposte, pirouette, parry, riposte; then Jon saw his opening. Jon feinted toward Theon's left shoulder, before arcing his blade around at the last second and bringing it down hard on Theon's right knee. The Ironborn youth yelped, even before Jon brought his practice sword down with a heavy, overhead swing, on Theon's sword arm. Jon felt a twinge of guilt about the audible crunch that resulted. Theon dropped his sword and shouted several choice curses Jon didn't quite catch as Jory and Robb drove him back in tandem.

While Jon had been ever so slightly better than Robb, even before he had been sent back in time, now Jon could easily best his trueborn sibling. But Jory Cassel was an altogether different beast. While the Jon who had died beyond the Wall could have bested him, in this body Jon's arms were going numb from the weight behind the seasoned soldier's attacks. Jon knew he was never going to win unless he managed to separate his two opponents.

He had probably parried a score of blows before he finally saw an opening. Jon stabbed across his body at Jory's opposite shoulder, using the twist of his body to gather momentum, extend his leg as far as he could, and boot Robb hard. Jon knocked him down for the second time, but before he could bring down the finishing blow, Jory executed a beautiful spin, even dropping to one knee, and buried the full force of his momentum right on the blunt sword point he plunged in Jon's gut.

Jon fell to his knees and struggled not to lose his lunch. After a few seconds of dry-heaving, Jory proffered him a hand up. Robb and Theon had already stormed off the field.

"You fought well today, Jon" Jory said. Jon winced, still holding his gut.

"Not well enough. I lost. And when winter comes, the dead are dead, no matter how well they fought."

**Robb**

Robb returned his practice sword to the sword rack in the armory, and doffed his weighted vest Rodrik Cassel had them use for armor when sparring. It wasn't much use; Robb could feel the bruises coming already.

But Robb's pride was bruised every bit as much as his body. He was furious. It used to be that he and Jon were roughly equal, though Robb had always been ever so slightly better. But then, in the last couple weeks, Jon had suddenly taken things to a whole new level. Overnight, Jon had gone from nearly matching Robb to nearly matching the Cassels.

"Are you alright, Robb?" Jon asked, entering the armory. "I you're not hurting too badly."

"I wouldn't be hurting at all if you still fought honorably." Robb was surprised by the venom in his own voice. "You almost never beat me before you started fighting dirty" – a slight exaggeration – "What happened? Did you wake up one morning tired of getting killed?" Jon's eyes darted up at that last barb. Robb caught a glimpse of recognition - and was that pain - in his half-brother's eyes.

Visibly gathering himself, Jon replied "In a real fight, you do what you can to win. All the platitudes heaped on by wistful widows and naïve maidens, their whispers that he fought honorably, they aren't worth _shit_ when you're dead." The venom in Jon's voice stoked the flames of Robb's own anger even higher.

"That makes sense coming from you; after all, what do you know about honor, _bastard_?" Jon's eyes narrowed, and the flames of Robb's wrath were immediately replaced by an icy dagger of regret, straight through his heart. Jon stormed out of the room. Robb hesitated only a single moment before darting after him.

"Jon" Robb called. His brother stopped, but didn't turn to face him. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean it, and I should never have said it. I guess I just don't understand how you got so good overnight. I'm used to being as good as you, and suddenly I'm just not."

"I'm sorry too" Jon said, though he still didn't turn around. "I guess I also was angry. I don't like losing any more than you do. I should not have said what I did, either." Jon finally turned to face him. "If you want to get as good as me, go get your sword. I'll show you the difference between honor and stupid."

**Ned**

Ned stood on the balcony overlooking the sparring yard. The sun was setting, and Robb and Jon were finally retiring from the field, having been sparring for hours. The servants Cat had sent to fetch Robb had been beseeching him to go with them for nearly a whole hour; Robb was going to get an earful tonight, either because he was going to miss Arya's nameday feast, or because he was going to show up looking, and smelling, like a common laborer.

Behind him and to his right stood Ser Rodrik; to Ned's left was Maester Luwin. "Have the pair of you noticed anything strange about Jon in the last few weeks? Ever since he came into the Great Hall in his small clothes something has been off about him; it's almost like there's a weight around his shoulders.

"Today he nearly bested Robb, Theon, and Jory on the sparring field" Ser Rodrik said.

"Even Jory?" Ned asked, turning to look at his two companions.

"I think you misunderstand, my lord. I had Jon duel Robb, Theon, and Jory _at the same time_ and he nearly won. I don't know how he got so good. It's like he went to bed a student of the sword and woke up with the skills of a battle-hardened knight. I've never seen anything like it.

"Furthermore, he's truncated the sword forms I taught him. They're still recognizable, but he's made them faster, less elegant and more brutal. And he doesn't hesitate to punch, kick, or lower his shoulder if it will help him win. It won't win him any favors with the ladies or friends in a tourney, but it's effective."

Ned stroked the stubble on his chin, pondering what Ser Rodrik had said. "And have you noticed any changes in Jon, Luwin?"

"One of the most important things they teach every maester in the Citadel, regardless of what chain links they choose to forge, is how to communicate knowledge: in short, to teach. Teaching is a skill, a talent, something one must work at to get good at. Except Jon, like with his swordsmanship, became a fantastic teacher overnight, before which he showed neither the ability nor the inclination. Yet I watched him instruct young Bran in the art of archery just yesterday. While no master archer" – Rodrik _hmph'd_ his agreement – "Bran improved drastically after only an hour under Jon's tutelage.

"Furthermore, he's been spending quite a bit of time in the library. His two primary areas of interest seem to be the relationships between the lords paramount, and ancient history. And finally, he asked me to send ravens for him: one to Horn Hill, one to Braavos, and one to Pentos."

Neds mind was racing. "Horn Hill and the Free Cities? Did he say why?"

"No. I told him I couldn't dispatch ravens without your permission, my lord, and he withdrew sullenly. When nothing more came of it, I assumed you had forbidden it. I didn't know you didn't know."

"Both of you mentioned Jon seemed to gather new skills and interests overnight" Ned said. "Could you identify which night?"

"It was at least a week ago" Rodrik said, "but not more than two. I've been gradually raising the difficulty of his training bouts, so I have a rough idea."

"It was a fortnight exact, my lord" Luwin said. "I remember because he came to the library immediately, or almost immediately, after he entered the Great Hall in his smallclothes."

"Yes, Luwin's right" Rodrik concurred. "I remember Theon making fun of him for it, right before he and Jon sparred. You may have noticed the squid was sitting gingerly for a few days when you son finished smacking his ass around the practice yard."

"Horn Hill, the Free Cities, ancient history, the lords paramount, a trip to the great hall in his smallclothes, and a sudden proficiency in a plethora of skills: no explanation comes to mind immediately" Ned said thoughtfully. "Maybe it's time to ask him."

Dismissing Rodrik and Luwin, Ned made his way down to the armory where Rob and Jon were cleaning and stowing their swords.

"Jon, to me" Ned said. Though he took great pains to keep his face blank, and even a bit stern, Ned smiled inwardly as both jumped at his unexpected voice. "And Robb, your mother is going to send you to the Wall unless the gods grant you the sudden ability to bath, change, and make yourself presentable in the time it takes Bran to climb a tower. Away with you! And make sure Lady Stark knows the servants are not to blame" Ned called after his son as he darted up the stairs.

"You wanted to see me, Father?" Jon asked, once Robb was out of earshot.

"Yes, I've been hearing some odd things about you, Jon. Things that, under ordinary circumstances, would make me proud were they not so strange."

"What sort of things have you been hearing?" Jon asked, but Ned could see in his eyes that Jon was hiding something.

"To start, Luwin told me you were trying to send ravens to the Free Cities. Would you care to explain that? I cannot think of any person in Essos you would be writing a letter to." Ned fixed Jon with his most intent gaze; a gaze Ned hoped resembled the way his father had looked at his various lords bannerman, right before they invariably yielded to him. Jon visibly shrunk in on himself.

"Father" Jon began haltingly, "there are things I can't tell you." He faltered. "Things you wouldn't believe if I told you. Things I don't even know how to tell you. I know I have to, eventually, but I just can't think of a way – " Ned was shocked as Jon lowered his head and tears began to fall from his face. Between his sobs, Jon continued. "Things have to be … different … this time. But we can't … make things … too different … else the girls will never … be who they were meant to be. Bran will never … be … who he was meant to be. And Dany … " The words stopped, but the sobs continued. Ned, despite being even more confused than ever, knew he was going to get no more answers from Jon this way. He lowered the stern façade and embraced his son.

Jon returned the hug, and the two embraced with an intensity they had not for years. For Jon's own sake, Ned was wary of any servants passing by while his nearly adult son cried into his chest. But then, Ned felt his hackles rise when he though he heard Jon say "I'm so glad you're alive."

For a few minutes more, Ned held Jon before finally, gently, pushing him away. "My son," he began, "mayhaps I will still be confused once you tell me what you have to tell. But until you tell me, confusion is my only option. If what you have to say is truly terrible enough to cause this – " Ned gestured to Jon's tear-stained cheeks – "then you cannot face it alone. We stand together, for winter is coming." More than anything else that last phrase seemed to give infuse Jon with strength.

"That is exactly it, Father. Winter is coming. And it's worse than you could possibly imagine. I experienced it; I died; and for some reason I can't explain, I'm here now.

"I guess I'll just start from the beginning: in that life – if that is what I should call it – you soon received a letter from King's Landing informing you of Jon Arryn's death. The King came north, and named you his Hand. You, Sansa, and Arya returned to King's Landing with him. Shortly thereafter, Robert died, and you were arrested for treason by his son. Robb called the banners and marched south to free you, but he was too late: Joffrey had you executed.

"When you went south, I went north and became a brother of the Night's Watch. Lord Commander Mormont led a great ranging, over three hundred rangers, north of the Wall. I went with the Half-Hand to scout the wildling camp. We were captured. The rest were executed, but I was spared because I, with Qhorin's help, was able to convince the Wildlings I wanted to desert the Watch. I climbed the Wall with them, but then deserted, and ultimately defeated them at Castle Black.

"When I returned, Robb was dead and the Bolton's held Winterfell. Roose Bolton wed his bastard to 'Arya', who was actually Jeyne Poole. The members of the ranging had been attacked by the Others, and the stragglers were just now returning. Lord Commander Mormont had been killed by his own men in a mutiny.

"I was elected his replacement, and I ordered the Wildlings be let through the Wall. Every dead Wildling was one we would have to fight later – the Others can raise the dead – and this order got me murdered, but I was brought back to life by a priestess of R"hllor. Knowing the decrepit state of the Night's Watch, and critical importance of holding the Wall, I decided that, having died, my watch was ended, and I set about retaking the North from the Boltons.

"I had all but lost the Battle of Winterfell when the Knights of the Vale arrived to my aid, unexpectedly, with Sansa and Lord Petyr Baelish at their head. Having reclaimed the North, the surviving lords – over my protests – named me King-in-the-North. As king, I followed the pattern of the penultimate King of Winter, Torrhen Stark, and sailed to Dragonstone to kneel to Daenerys Targaryen and her three dragons. She agreed to let us mine obsidian, and I and several others journeyed North of the Wall to capture a Wight, so we could prove to the South the danger we faced. Everyone who went North of the Wall died.

"Upon dying, I woke up in my old bed. I was so startled, and when I realized the possibilities of what this meant I – "

"Ran into the Great Hall in your smallclothes" Ned finished for him. Jon's story beggared belief. It was absolutely ridiculous; yet the tale made some sense. "So your sudden prowess with the sword … "

"Doesn't feel so sudden to me" Jon replied. "What was a single night for you was five years for me."

Ned didn't know what to think. On one hand, Jon's tale was, plainly put, impossible. Parts made sense: if Jon Arryn died – gods be good, many years from now – it didn't seem implausible that Robert would make him Hand. And if Ned were arrested, would Robb call the banners: probably. It also made sense that the Night's Watch would elect someone from the Stark family, even baseborn, to be Lord Commander. But then there were the other parts: Others and dragons and priests of R"hllor, Jon being raised from the dead, being named King in the North, Winterfell being ruled by a Bolton bastard. It beggared belief.

Yet Ned did not doubt that Jon _believed_ what he was saying was true. Jon had never been one given to flights of fancy, and this raw display of emotion was very convincing, for Jon had never been a good liar either. Additionally, the information Jon conveyed and didn't convey rang authentic to Ned; he didn't try and explain _how_ certain things occurred, which made sense if he had truly been beyond the Wall. Finally, there was the matter of Jon's sudden skills. The interests could be explained by Jon believing his story, but the skills were a strong point in favor of his story actually being true.

Ned wasn't certain. He did not know beyond any doubt that Jon spoke true. But he believed him, at least enough to ask, "So what do we do about it?"


End file.
